


thursday; fic

by fightingtheblankpage



Series: Allydia Week [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:52:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingtheblankpage/pseuds/fightingtheblankpage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Honesty in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thursday; fic

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a part of the Allydia Week Challenge.

The only time they are truly honest with each other is when it’s dark, and warm, and the covers are too heavy, so they kick them off and just lay there, wrapped around each other. It’s easier for Allison to make herself swallow her Perfect Lady of the House instincts (courtesy of her mother) that make her cringe at the duvet on the floor, than to untangle Lydia from around her. Lydia needs to hold on to something in those moments, and Allison wants this something to be her.

That’s now Allison knows all the bad things that will always be between them: that Lydia will never, ever truly be _over_ Jackson, but she’s still jealous when Allison mentions Scott. That there are three people starring in Lydia’s nightmares, the truly bad ones: Peter, slithering his way into her soul, where he had no right to be; her father, on the day he left them, and she chose not to go with him; Allison, leaving Lydia or hurting Lydia, because she’s the only one who actually can anymore. That Lydia’s biggest dream isn’t the Fields Medal – it’s to run away. She can be brilliant anywhere in the world, after all.

That’s how Lydia knows that sometimes Allison still hears and sees the ghosts of her past lives – that’s how they refer to it, as if they were born many, many times – her mother and her grandfather. That Allison may have more self-esteem issues than even Jackson has accumulated. That Allison knows it would be easier, if she stayed with Scott. That Allison thinks Lydia is the kind of person you can’t have for the keeping, and so she’s sure that Lydia will just walk out one day. And Allison won’t stop her, because Lydia deserves the world at her feet, nothing less.

This thing they have, kept safe in the darkness, tenuous when exposed to the morning light, is imperfect. It’s not the prestige and spotlights of being with Jackson. It’s not comfort and constant reassurance of being with Scott. It’s deeds and words that won’t be forgiven, and shouted arguments, and hissed-out truths, and trying to make ‘I love you, but‒’ sound like ‘Just stay, stay, never go, please, never go’.

It’s in the way that people have it all wrong. When you’re kissing a girl, yes, her lips are softer than a boy’s, usually, and there is nothing softer than Lydia’s lips. But it doesn’t mean the kiss is soft, or anything about it, really.

It’s in the way that when somebody asks, Allison still says that Lydia is her best friend, and it’s more than ‘girlfriend’, actually. Lydia’s not someone she started dating one day, and who just sort of stuck around. Lydia is someone who grew on her, decided to take reign over her every waking hour in a gradual, unstoppable manner.

It’s in the way that Lydia can be quiet for hours when Allison needs her, and she doesn’t listen when Allison tells her that she wants to be alone for this – a cemetery visit. An obligatory Argent family meeting. She just takes her hand.

It’s in the way that when they’re making love, sometimes Lydia’s eyes are closet shut, and she asks Allison, in the smallest, shakiest voice, to ‘Please tell me you want me’. And Allison whispers the dirtiest, most corrupt things that come to her mind, about how she always wants Lydia, about how every damn thing Lydia has done during the day made Allison plan for this moment.

Sometimes they drift apart. Not exactly argue, or break up (this isn’t something they can break; it’s something they’d have to reap out of their hearts, and be so very thorough, because this thing, this feeling, it has its roots in them, and they are long, and twisted, and wrapped around everything). They just don’t talk, and don’t touch, and breathe different air. Maybe even different people, if this wintertime between them stretches on for too long.

And then, when the night comes again, it finds them in bed, wrapped around each other, with the covers kicked down to the floor.


End file.
